


Q is for Quirk

by Janieshi



Series: Alphabet [17]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2019-10-09 19:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17413214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieshi/pseuds/Janieshi
Summary: In which Breda reflects on the secrets with which he has been entrusted over the years, and Catalina plans her retirement.





	Q is for Quirk

  _Quirk /_ _ˈkwərk_ _/ noun – a peculiarity of action, behavior, personality or mannerism._

* * *

For as long as he could remember, Heymans Breda had been the person that everyone told their secrets to. When he was old enough to recognize this, he finally began to wonder _why_. But he’d never really come up with a satisfactory reason. People simply…trusted him.

Breda was neither handsome enough to be considered a rival in matters of the heart nor ugly enough to be repulsive or pitiful. He was simply average, with a plain, round face and a cheerful, non-threatening demeanor. He was on good terms with most everyone he knew, male and female alike. People felt safe with him, drawn to him. Those who knew him intimately valued his keen intelligence (which he took pains to conceal from those who _didn’t_ know him) as well as his honesty and discretion. He’d never betrayed a confidence, nor did he gossip about any of the things he’d learned.

And so it became natural for his friends and acquaintances (and subsequently _their_ friends and acquaintances) to seek him out when they needed good, sound advice or a sympathetic ear for their troubles. To know him was to confide in him.

Breda often found himself thinking ‘But why tell _me_?’ as some distraught, pitiable soul blurted out their innermost thoughts on their latest personal drama. He never resented the role of confidante, excepting a short period during his teenage years, throughout which he’d been inundated with the woes of lovelorn friends. He wasn’t some sort of love guru; _knowing_ about someone’s crush didn’t mean he could somehow make the object of it _reciprocate_!

There were real secrets, on occasion, confessions of guilt or complicity or unrequited passion. Sometimes they were simply slightly embarrassing factoids or anecdotes which the confessor had only shared with a carefully chosen few. Mostly, though, people just felt comfortable enough to let their guard down and open up around him, and Breda’s own observational skills and sound deductive reasoning did the rest.

Everyone had quirks, of course. Breda just happened to know what most of them were.

Some were obvious. Major Armstrong was a regular mess of oddities, from his “Armstrong Family Traditions” to his inexplicable need to tear off his shirt and flex his muscles at the slightest provocation. Elric’s sensitivity to being called short and his passionate hatred for milk, and his little brother’s suit of armor and tendency to pick up stray kittens, or Lieutenant Colonel Hughes and that obsessive need to show off photos of his (admittedly adorable) daughter…all of _these_ little peculiarities were fairly well-known.

Fuery’s unexpectedly foul mouth was more of an open secret, which anyone who’d worked with him learned in short order. That shy little Private Sheska, too, and her eidetic memory: coupled with an insatiable love of reading anything and everything that crossed her path, she had the incredible ability to recite entire books from memory, which was well known among those of her acquaintance.

But most quirks were far less noticeable.

Havoc’s, for example. Jean was a fairly open book, and he’d long since accepted the fact that his strength lay more in ‘brawn’ than ‘brain.’ He took his (many) disappointments with the fairer sex with good-natured self-deprecation, laughing off his own misfortunes and promptly jumping back in the saddle, so to speak.

But deep down, Havoc was actually a hopeless romantic who sighed over love songs and romance novels as fervently as any starry-eyed schoolgirl in the throes of her first infatuation.  And Breda alone knew that Jean’s most cherished desire was to earn the love of a good woman, settle down and start a family.

In spite of his acknowledged weakness for a nice pair of… **ahem,** for an _attractive outer appearance_ , Jean knew that a compatible personality was far more important to long-term happiness. His ideal was actually based on Lieutenant Hawkeye – no, no, not like _that_ , although of course she was a damn fine woman herself, but just – **_no_**.

No, what he truly wanted was what Hawkeye was to Colonel Mustang: a soulmate. Someone loyal to the core, who’d support him with everything she had to give, but who would also never be afraid to tell him when he was being an idiot. A woman he could trust and respect, who’d challenge him and encourage him, who’d recognize his flaws but love him in spite of them.

But until he found such an elusive creature, Havoc took solace in sappy love stories wherever he found them. Dime store novels, ballads, plays, his friends’ personal lives…in fact, he was secretly rooting for Second Lieutenant Maria Ross (former collector of small porcelain figurines) and Sergeant Denny Brosh (deathly afraid of horses) to get together, in spite of the completely unrequited nature of poor Brosh’s affections. Personally, Breda thought Lieutenant Ross could do much better – and Sergeant Brosh’s crush was only puppy love anyway. The kid would get over it soon enough.

When Breda noticed the way that Jean’s eyes lit up whenever Lieutenant Catalina walked into the room, he was faintly surprised to discover a hopeless romantic within himself, as well. Damn good thing, really. Havoc was gonna need all the help he could get to land _that_ particular woman.

Second Lieutenant Rebecca Catalina herself was an interesting case. Outgoing, bubbly and pretty as she was, she reminded Breda of the popular girls he’d known in school. He’d expected her to be a shallow, vain little thing, all fluff and no substance. But he’d quickly realized his mistake. Catalina was a kindred spirit – smart as a whip and good at hiding it when it suited her, and as good a judge of character and observer of human nature as he fancied himself to be.

Her friendship with Hawkeye, which was utterly baffling at first glance, was far more sincere and devoted than most people knew. The uninformed assumed that the staid Lieutenant Hawkeye merely tolerated the other woman’s cheerful prattle because Catalina was the aide of her boss’s boss, and therefore someone she didn’t wish to offend. Only a select few were aware of the true depth of affectionate friendship between the two women.

Breda had seen the proof of it firsthand on the memorable occasion where the Lieutenant had had to have her appendix out. One afternoon, Hawkeye had suddenly gone white as a sheet and doubled over, clutching her abdomen and gasping in pain. As her frantic teammates had carefully helped her to lie down before she collapsed, they’d asked her what was wrong, and what they could do. Her only reply had been: “Get Catalina.” (Which a disgruntled Mustang had been deeply offended to learn, later, though he’d never admit it out loud).

Once summoned, Catalina had arrived in record time, wild-eyed and out of breath.  She had promptly shoved Breda and Havoc out of the way, tenderly cradled her friend’s head in her lap, and murmured gentle words of comfort as she stroked the blonde hair. Fuery had had the presence of mind to call for the medics, but it was Catalina who’d held Hawkeye’s hand until they’d arrived, and it was Catalina who’d known the answers to their questions about possible allergies and previous medical history.

And apparently, Catalina had also been responsible for the shimmery crimson nail polish that’d appeared on Hawkeye’s fingernails sometime between her surgery and the start of the recovery ward’s visiting hours. According to Mustang, it was something of a tradition between the two friends, and Riza ended up with perfectly manicured nails each and every time she was injured or ill enough to be incapacitated.

Some weeks after _that_ incident, and following a nasty injury of his own, Mustang had turned up at the office sporting bright blue nails with shimmering silver tips. Hawkeye had utterly failed to hide her delighted laughter when she’d spotted the tiny pink flower painted on one of his thumbnails. She’d eventually found some nail polish remover for him, but not until he’d endured the odd looks and barely stifled snickering of his men for a good three hours.

Intelligent, loyal, gorgeous, _and_ in possession of that mischievous sense of humor…no wonder Jean had fallen so hard for her. Catalina would most certainly keep a man on his toes, Breda was sure of that. Now, if only Havoc would stop pining from afar and make an overture towards the woman already.

Even Hawkeye was beginning to drop gentle hints about her friend’s interest and availability. Poor Havoc still hadn’t quite caught on, though. Hawkeye and Breda had taken to exchanging exasperated looks whenever the pair interacted - each was clearly interested in the other, and they certainly flirted heavily, but they never seemed to get any farther.

Hawkeye, now…Lieutenant Hawkeye was a serious, no-nonsense sort of woman, and her fastidiously correct appearance seemed to reflect her personality. Her uniform was always neat and tidy and regulation down to the very letter, and she never indulged in any of the little frills that were permitted (and embraced) by other women in the service. She rarely bothered with makeup – a dab of powder and a bit of mascara at the most, perhaps a swipe of lipstick on the rarest of occasions. The dress code allowed for modest jewelry, and Hawkeye _did_ wear a single pair of earrings. But she never swapped out her simple silver studs for anything more elaborate, nothing sparkly or showy.

She wasn’t the _only_ woman in the military who chose to forgo such trivial things, but she was certainly in the minority. Most people assumed she wasn’t interested in such girlish accoutrements. Most people would be wrong.

Her indulgences were simply of a more private nature.

Breda’s first suspicion of Hawkeye’s penchant for delicate feminine frivolities occurred on the first visit he’d made to her apartment after hours. He’d forgotten the exact circumstances, something to do with time-sensitive paperwork needing her signature. She’d come to the door in an ice-blue silk dressing gown, worn over something edged in cream-colored lace, with her hair soft and loose around her shoulders. For a split second, Breda had thought that he’d knocked on the wrong door.

If it had been any other item of clothing, he might have written it off as an aberration. But nightclothes were so _personal_. Even if the pretty dressing gown had been a gift, it’s not as though the giver would ever know whether or not she’d worn it. And then of course there was the froth of lace peeping out from underneath the robe, which meant her other garments were equally as feminine. In addition, there was the loose hair and the subtle floral scent of whatever candle or incense she had burning in the apartment...and so Breda had had to reassess some of his assumptions about his stern superior officer.

After what Hawkeye’s teammates would come to refer to as ‘The Revealing,’ when they’d all gotten an up-close and personal and completely unintentional look at her, erm, _measurements_ , it became clear that Hawkeye’s taste for silks, lace, and soft pastel colors was the norm rather than the anomaly. She obviously had a soft, feminine side that she was careful to keep separate from her somewhat austere work persona.

Mustang, naturally, had been the only one who didn’t seem surprised by Hawkeye’s taste in lingerie. Breda had watched them both more closely afterwards, but to his disappointment, there still didn’t seem to be anything _actually_ going on between them. In the end he’d been forced to chalk it up to Mustang simply knowing her better than anyone else. He _had_ been the only one who knew about her incredible culinary skills, after all.

In fact, it was the revelation of that particular talent that had led to the disclosure of Falman’s carefully hidden secret: the man was an astonishingly amazing baker. He wasn’t a great _cook_ , though. At least, not at first. But Vato Falman made the most divine cookies, pastries, cakes, and breads.

Breda had asked Hawkeye how that was possible one morning, when the others were busy clamoring over the chocolate croissants Falman had brought in to share. She’d smiled in a way that showed she’d given the matter some thought of her own, and offered him her opinion.

Baking was essentially a chemical experiment: a precise formula to be followed, with rigid steps, where adding too much or too little of any one ingredient in the wrong order could ruin the whole thing. Cookery was far more forgiving, and often a lot more intuitive, where throwing in a bit of this or that would yield subtle differences in flavor without significantly altering the dish, and adding any ingredient “to taste” was entirely at the chef’s discretion. But it was that very inaccuracy that was Falman’s stumbling block.

“But precisely how MUCH salt and pepper am I to add?” he’d ask, with furrowed brow. “A quarter teaspoon? A half teaspoon? And is that per pound or per each individual chicken breast? And what is the significance of the rosemary? How does it favorably impact the flavor profile?” The other person would invariably throw up their hands and give him up as a lost cause.

Hawkeye, however, with that innate patience Breda admired, had done her best to answer his questions down to the ‘pinches’ and ‘sprinkles’ of this herb or that spice. And with the rigid structure of a recipe to follow to the letter each time, Falman’s cooking improved with leaps and bounds. Still, though, he was far more secure in his baked goods.

With good reason, too: his cinnamon raisin bread was absolutely to _die_ for.

 

Several weeks after the events of the Promised Day (or the Briggs’ Rebellion, as they were apparently calling it this week), Breda found himself sitting in a dingy little bar and thinking seriously about his life and his future.

He stared down into his barely-touched beer, pondering over each one of his friends and co-workers. Over the secrets that he’d kept _for_ and _from_ them. Over the quirks he’d come to know and love about each of them: Havoc’s love of cheesy romance novels, Fuery’s ridiculously foul mouth that somehow never detracted from his sweet-faced innocence, Falman’s transcendent devil’s food cupcakes and the faint flush of pleasure on his face whenever his teammates complimented them, Major Armstrong’s…everything.

He thought about reserved Lieutenant Hawkeye’s taste for über-feminine lingerie and pajamas, and about the unexpected allure of Maria’s gentle self-deprecating laughter. About Ed and Al and the resilience of their spirits, _somehow_ still unbroken in spite of all the sorrow and pain they’d lived through. About how much he missed Hughes cornering him with those damn photos of his. About Mustang’s incredible determination and his unwavering dedication to his men.

But most of all, he thought about the secret Catalina had revealed to him a few minutes ago.

She watched him in silence, calmly sipping her own beer and letting him ruminate. He appreciated that. It was a lot to process. He’d only found out about Madame Christmas’s relationship to Colonel Mustang the day before, for heaven’s sake. Learning that her little cabaret had been an honest-to-god _spy-ring_ this entire time? Yeah, that was gonna take a minute to sink in.

Not only that, but to find out that General Grumman himself was both aware of and an active participant in this little information brokering ring—which was run by Mustang’s aunt! Breda was still feeling a little shell-shocked.

He eyed Catalina warily. She offered him a placid smile.

“All right,” he finally said. “So…why are you telling me all this?” He had his suspicions, but he needed to hear her say it.

“Madame has decided it’s time to…well, not quite _retire_ , but to take on a less visible role. She’ll still be running things behind the scenes. But someone else will run the day to day business of the bar. She also wants to expand; open up a new place in the East so she can keep an eye on her nephew.”

“Mustang’s being transferred out east again?” Breda asked with interest. He’d figured Mustang would be aiming to get back out there, what with his plans to help restore Ishval…being stationed in East City would make logistical sense.

“Promoted, actually,” Catalina explained. “He’ll be taking General Grumman’s former post just as soon as he clears medical. Riza’s going with him, of course.”

“Of course,” Breda snorted. No force of heaven or earth would stand a chance of splitting **that** pair up.  

“Anyway, regarding Madame’s expansion plans,” Catalina continued. “She plans to leave her older and more experienced personnel in charge here in Central, once they get the old place rebuilt and running again. And that means she’ll need a new manager for the East City place; preferably one who’s already familiar with the area and the people out there. So…Grumman recommended me.”

“You’re resigning your commission, then?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, anyway,” she shrugged. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

“Saves you the hassle of moving to Central, at least,” Breda mused.

“Exactly! And it’ll give me the chance to keep a closer eye on Riza and her idiot Colonel, make sure they don’t end up at the center of another damn apocalypse any time soon. Plus, these damn uniforms are _SO_ unflattering – but I look great in evening wear,” she winked.

This was true. But beside the point.

“Are you asking me to come and work for you?” he finally asked. Catalina had rested her chin on one hand and smiled lightly at him.

“Everyone already tells you their secrets. Who better to be my partner in an information-gathering enterprise? We’d still be backing Mustang and Grumman, of course, just in a slightly different capacity.”

Breda fell silent again, considering his options.

Havoc had already told him that he’d be staying in East City. His ‘miraculous recovery’ would look too suspicious if he tried to reenlist now, and he needed more physical therapy anyhow to build up all those atrophied muscles. Fuery was planning to follow Mustang wherever he went, which meant he’d be heading east as well, now. Falman hadn’t quite decided what he was doing next, but he did get on quite well with his new Northern teammates. Assuming he _did_ ultimately request a transfer to rejoin his old team, General Armstrong would probably put up a fight to keep him just to spite Mustang, Breda thought with a snort of amusement.

There wasn’t anything really keeping him in Central. No personal ties, familial or otherwise. Except for the slim chance at starting a relationship with one Maria Ross, who was still dead as far as the military was concerned, that is. (And surely Maria could be dead in East City as easily as Central….but how in the hell could he ask her to move for his sake when he hadn’t even asked her out for dinner, yet?)

“Oh, and did I mention? Ross is taking up Mustang on his offer to join the team,” Catalina said innocently. Breda’s head snapped up. How in the hell –? Did she –? But _how_ could she know?!

“What?” he said, stupidly. Catalina shrugged.

“I enjoyed working with her during this whole….what are we calling it this week, a coup d'état or a rebellion? Revolution, maybe?” she wondered. “Anyway, Maria’s a good soldier; we worked well together. Once Mustang resolves the minor issue of her being dead and a wanted criminal and whatnot, she agreed to transfer to East City with the rest of us.”

Well, then.

“I...wasn’t actually planning on _leaving_ the service,” Breda said slowly. Rebecca pursed her lips.

“You wouldn’t necessarily have to,” she said. “You could work part time on the weekends, if you wanted, or just come hang out at the bar after work. Strike up conversations, work your magic.”

Breda hummed and toyed with his glass. Catalina leaned forward to place her hand on his wrist and waited until he met her eyes.

“Listen, if you really don’t want to, no one will hold it against you,” she said softly. “It’s just…your talent as Keeper of Secrets would be a great asset to the business, and we’d love to have your help. Promise you’ll at least think about it?”

“Keeper of Secrets?” Breda snorted.

“It’s what Riza calls you, sometimes,” Rebecca grinned as she leaned back again. “Which reminds me – what secret of hers did you uncover, anyway? She’s never said.”

“If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, would it?” he retorted. “And besides, it’s not really a secret…just knowledge of a certain personal preference of hers.”

“You are aware of how scandalous that sounds, right?” she said dryly, startling Breda into a laugh.

“Not my fault you have a dirty mind,” he said. She giggled and shook her head, and they fell into another companionable silence. Breda frowned, thinking hard, and took a long swallow of his beer. Setting it back down with a small thud, he gave a small nod and met Rebecca’s eyes again.  “All right.”

“’All right,’ you’ll think about it?” Rebecca perked up, hopeful.

“All right, count me in,” Breda clarified. Her face lit up, and she scrambled around the table to throw her arms around his neck. He’d known her long enough that the embrace didn’t exactly surprise him, but he still flushed pink as her squeal of delight drew the attention of the majority of the bar.

“We are going to have _so_ much fun!” she crowed. “You’ll see; it’s going to be amazing!”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” he sighed.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to AsaNanica, who provided the prompt "quirks"


End file.
